


Portrait of the Condemned Man

by LaRondine (messier31)



Category: La Fanciulla del West | The Girl of the Golden West - Puccini/Civinini & Zangarini
Genre: Cowboys n Cowboyin, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Operas, POV: Johnson, opera fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24736888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier31/pseuds/LaRondine
Summary: Johnson's thoughts while hiding from Rance and the men in Minnie's cabin in act 2.
Relationships: Dick Johnson | Ramerrez/Minnie
Comments: 5
Kudos: 1





	Portrait of the Condemned Man

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the Met's 2011/2018 production but compatible with any; based closely off the English translation of the libretto. 
> 
> I have about 20 short scenes/stories about LFDW from May 2019-present; this was long enough and finished enough to be published as a standalone story. written January 2020.
> 
> [15] 
> 
> xox

The words are like a knife to the belly-- like a gunshot ripping through his very soul.

Even through the strong, thick timbers forming her closet, Rance's voice is as clear and victorious as an angel's trumpet. 

"Your boyfriend at the dance-- it was Ramerrez!!" 

And through the sound of his heart breaking, he can hear her too, hear her shock and disbelief. Ramerrez, Ramerrez, Ramerrez. He could never escape. 

"What do you mean?" she cries, and he knows that she does not believe Rance, that she thinks this is some sort of dirty trick. He wishes it were so, wishes it were any other way. 

Rance, again, speaks, mocking her, digging the knife in deeper and deeper. "A highway bandit!" he yells, like some triumphant busker who's just revealed the ball was not under the cup and is ready to collect everyone's bets, much to their dismay. 

And still she protests, that it's impossible, that they're wrong, that there's been some mistake. 

The door slams shut-- could his luck have changed? Could they have left? In the darkness it's impossible to tell--

But Rance speaks again, and the tight, miserable feeling is back in his gut, guilt and fear and hatred twisting and churning as he sits alone in the dark.

The voices are low now-- he hears Rance, grumbly and indistinct, and her voice, higher and silvery. And Ashby, though he can't pick out individual words, just an anxious murmur, an indistinct chatter, like a convicted man straining to hear the jury discuss his fate. Sonora, too? he'd considered him a friend, if only for the few hours they'd known each other. But duty came before anything, for each and all of them, it seemed. 

He wishes that time would move more quickly. He wishes he had the strength to burst out of the closet and embrace her, tell her the truth, beg for her forgiveness. But in his mind's eye he can see them still, standing in some loose circle, the men in their overcoats, Minnie in her nightgown-- or would she have put on a robe? he did not know if she had a robe-- and the look on her face, the tightness around her eyes, the same emotion he'd seen when she'd worried about the gold. fear and strength at the same time. 

Her voice peaks and crests again, soaring and crashing like a wave, anxiety and distress coloring her tone. "--but who told you the bandit was Johnson?" Yes, yes. I am Johnson. Ramerrez is dead. Please, Minnie--

A dramatic pause later, Rance's booming, cocky reply-- "His woman!" 

What?

No, no-- 

"His woman?" she gasps, and it's all too much, one misunderstanding after another, because he does not love Nina, he has never loved Nina. Only her. Only Minnie. All this time. 

Rance's voice dips dangerously low, as threatening as oncoming thunder, and though Johnson cannot hear his words, he can imagine all the things Nina would have told Rance, all the dirty, delicious lies she would have spread. Each surely hurting Minnie more than him-- 

Suddenly she laughs, a cruel, bitter laugh he'd never expected from her. The sound sends chills down his spine. 

More talking, and her voice rings out again-- "What charming company he keeps!" she spits, and he can feel his face flush, for her words and her anger are a duel edged knife-- for they are true, and he has hurt her in the exact way he feared he would. He has hurt her. He has hurt--

"Alright, boys," she says with a tired finality, "it's late now. Goodnight." 

He can hear the four men each bade her well as they depart, and he's strangely reminded of a dinner party, as though Minnie is the gracious host and each man her welcome guest. If only. 

The door shuts, and they are alone again. Finally. 

There is a moment of silence. She is all he has to live for. There is no going back. She is the only way forward. Would she ever forgive him? She did not turn him over, but still-- surely the anger and hurt is too much-- he could not forgive himself either... 

He contemplates-- debates-- should he go out by himself? Wait for her to summon him?

She decides for him.

"Come out here! Come out here!" she yells, and he steps back into the warm, golden light of her cabin. The condemned man, the damned man, awaiting his sentence. 


End file.
